


But You Still Stay

by king_finn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, no beta we die like witchers, not a lot else to say tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:33:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23201002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: Geralt regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, and realizes he's treating Jaskier unfairly. He apologizes, and together, they set down the mountain. The Witcher hopes everything will go back to normal - before Yennefer, before their fight, before everything - but Jaskier seems awfully quiet...(I suck at summaries, what's new?)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 588





	But You Still Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Made this little oneshot, based on July by Noah Cyrus, because it Inspired me. The style of this fic is a little different from my usual style, because I felt like experimenting a little, tbh. So if you love (or hate) it, please feel free to tell me in the comments or on tumblr @smol-squish-ao3 (I also post edits there and stuff, so check the tumblr out if you're interested, or just come talk to me, that's fun too.)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and/or a comment if you feel like it!
> 
> EDIT: I am now @king-finnigan on tumblr!

“Dammit, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shoveling it!”

Geralt could no longer keep the anger in, as the words rolled of his tongue like boulders down a mountainside. Unstoppable, destructive, all-consuming.

“Well, that’s not fair.” Deep down, Geralt knew it wasn’t, that he was being unreasonable, acting his rage out on the first person he could find – or, rather, the first person that had found him. He pushed the guilt away, though, desperate for an outlet for his anger and pain.

He was a tsunami, unstoppable, unforgiving, unyielding. “The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it! If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take _you_ off my hands.” He turned around, turned his back to the person that seemed to be the only one who cared for him at that moment, turned away from the guilt, slowly building up in the pit of his stomach.

He was a hurricane, destroying everything in his path, ruining lives, leaving a barren wasteland. “Right, uh, right.” Jaskier’s voice sounded from behind him, soft, frail, hurt. “I’ll… I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.”

Silence, like curdled milk between them, thick with words unsaid, sour with hurt, creeping into Geralt as guilt built up in his chest. Then: “See you around, Geralt.”

The sky was falling, the ground swept away from under his feet, as he heard Jaskier leave. Actually _leave._ Regret, pain, confusion, hurt, fear mixed in his chest, a toxic cocktail that boiled down to ‘ _oh, no_ ’.

“Jaskier, wait.” He was suddenly facing the Bard’s back, unsure of when he’d turned away from the cliffside. Jaskier stilled, looked back, a flash of anger and hurt on his face, before nothingness was on his features. Waiting, quiet, for Geralt to speak.

A sigh escaped the Witcher’s lips, mind as blank as an unused slate, not even graced with the presence of half-erased words and shadows of past sentences. Finally: “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.”

A slight smile on rosy lips, not reaching blue eyes or pale crow’s feet. “It’s okay.” _It wasn’t_ – they both knew, Geralt’s mind provided unhelpfully. Still, a trickle of relief washed over the Witcher, like water from the snowy tops of a mountain melting in the spring, washing down the rocks to cleanse the lands below.

Silence. Oppressive, thick, making it hard to breathe. He had to do something, say something, to lighten it all up, to make it all okay. “Right… let’s go, then.” _That didn’t help_.

Jaskier nodded, a false smile still on his lips. “Yeah, let’s go.” Blank, blue eyes looked at Geralt, waiting for him to start walking. So he did.

҉ ҉ ҉

Two days.

Two days it took to reach the foot of the mountain, of the ancient, stone beast. Silent, vigilant, judging. Judging Geralt for what he’d said, judging him for the glances he kept stealing of Jaskier’s profile, judging him for the words that formed in the back of his throat, only to die out like embers in the ashes.

Two days of thick, uncomfortable silence, only broken by footfalls, sighs, and a stray question here and there. No singing, no humming, no music, no talking, no mumbling, no sounds from the Bard. Only short answers and clipped sentences, only prompted talking, only silence afterwards.

Two days of trying to act like everything was normal, when it wasn’t. The Witcher could see it in Jaskier’s features when he thought Geralt wasn’t looking. He could smell it, in waves on and off, like a stormy beach, thunder crackling overhead as the gulls cry out. He could hear it in the soft sniffles at night, and the Bard’s voice, whenever he spoke.

He could sense the _hurt_.

Finally, after two days of loneliness, confusion, regret, guilt, they reached the inn at the foot of the quiet mountain, its roots under their feet as they approached the town.

Jaskier ordered a room with two beds, for the first time in ten years, and Geralt pretended he wasn’t hurt.

Instead, he drowned his sorrows, drinking like a man dying of thirst. Three, five, seven, ten tankards, empty, on the table, taken away by the barmaid one by one like soldiers returning from the war. He downed another, long lost count of how many pints he had done the same to so far.

Jaskier sat opposite him, slender fingers on a glass of red wine, staring daggers into it, as if he could set it on fire if he glared enough.

Rowdiness washed over the room around them as the night progressed. Broken noses, drunken laughter, loud voices. The smell of ale, dirt, wine, sweat, joy, and anger.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, centuries passed.

And then.

There were tears in Jaskier’s eyes as he downed his wine, standing up abruptly. Strong hands balled on the table, knuckles white, light filtering from behind him, casting his face into darkness, making his form shine like the morning sun. Something pulling in his cheek, making the corner of his mouth quiver. Dark circles under his eyes, crow’s feet at the edges. Sweat on his brow, dirt on his nose. Rumpled clothes, sand under his nails.

The most beautiful person Geralt had ever seen.

“I’m going to sleep.” A moment, two moments. No words came to Geralt mind. He blinked. Jaskier was gone.

Up the stairs to their shared room, with two beds, for the first time in ten years.

Another ale, and another, and it was getting late. The bar cleared around him, ale and sweat and blood on the floor, visible, highlighted by the absence of people. The quiet after the storm, destruction in its wake – something not a lot of people ever talked about. The quiet _before_ the storm, yes, it was spoken about. Afterwards, however, not.

People would be too busy grieving and cleaning up the mess to do so.

Heavy footfalls on the stairs underneath him, the stench of the bar behind, the darkness of the hallway ahead. The prospect of seeing Jaskier again. Daunting, exhilarating.

Hand on the wooden doorknob, a splinter in his finger. He pulled it out before opening the door.

Jaskier was in bed, stilling as Geralt entered, his back to the Witcher. Geralt could taste the salt in the air, the dampness of the Bard’s tears sticking on his skin as they hung in the coldness of the room.

Sitting down on the edge of the other bed, staring at the back turned to him. Gentle curves and strong lines, hidden by blankets and quivering muscles, as Jaskier tried and failed to keep his emotions in. Searching for words, finally finding them: “What’s wrong, Jaskier?”

One moment, two moments. A soft voice, shaking, unsure, soft. “Nothing.” _Like hell._ ‘Nothing’ would never be emotional turmoil in his scent, his form trembling, soft sounds at the back of his throat, swallowing tears. Everything was wrong.

The Witcher could sleep. He could pretend he didn’t see, hear, smell, feel the anger and sadness. He could act as though he didn’t notice. He could ignore everything and embrace the ‘nothing’.

He didn’t.

Gritting, grinding, gnawing of teeth. Trying to find the right words, slipping from his fumbling grasp. Deciding against thinking too much and planning to say what was on his mind, for once. Trying to sound genuine, sincere, soft: “Jaskier, I know something’s wrong. Talk to me.”

The Bard bolted upright, turning to the Witcher. Fire in the sky of his eyes, tear tracks on his pale cheeks, the muscle pulling at the corner of his rosy lips again, and again, and again. “Oh, so _now_ you want me to talk?”

The witcher cocked his head, unsure, uncertain, confused. Jaskier huffed, the scent of lemongrass and tears on his breath as it hit Geralt a few seconds later. Nimble fingers in brown curls, exasperation on his features. “I recall you telling me to shut up for _twenty years._ So you can imagine I’m a tad bit surprised, really.”

Silence, stretching like cold syrup between them. Heaving chest, daggers in blue eyes, a huff. “You know what? I’ve had enough.”

Jaskier stood up, abrupt, angry, forceful. The blankets fell in a heap on the floor, half-attached to the foot of the bed, creamy white against dark brown, soft against hard. The Bard took his bag, Geralt frowned. He started shoving his belongings in there, uncharacteristically in a rush, crumpling precious clothes, bending corners of previously carefully flat paper.

Trying to find words, yellow eyes confused, worried. Finally: “What are you doing?”

“Leaving, obviously.” Voice desperate, tired, surrendered. Jaskier slung his bag over his shoulder, walking to the door.

Quickly: “Wait.” Desperate, confused, scared. “Don’t go.”

A half turn, annoyed and impossibly blue eyes, fire spilling from them, fight not yet done, anger not yet depleted. “ _Really?_ Two days ago, you told me to fuck off, and now you _don’t want me to_?”

One moments, two moments, quiet between them. No words on Geralt’s mind, plenty on Jaskier’s. Suddenly: “If you want me to leave, then tell me to leave, and I’ll go.”

Disbelief, fury, _hope_ on those delicate but strong features. Hurt, more and more, as silence stretched between them, Geralt’s mind wordless and panicked. “Right.” Jaskier turned back to the door, long legs stalking and certain. “I know enough.”

The door opened inwards, an inch or two, before being slammed shut. Suddenly, Geralt found himself next to Jaskier, hand holding the door shut as the Bard tugged at it, trying to leave. The Witcher’s mind hadn’t responded, hadn’t spoken the words he desperately wanted to find, so his legs had acted on their own accord, agreeing with his arms to stop Jaskier from leaving.

The Bard turned around. Eyes furious, fist against Geralt’s breastbone, pushing, hard, but not enough to hurt. Not physically. “Jaskier, don’t go.”

Angry red cheeks, burning blue eyes, sweaty brown hair. A fist pushing against the Witcher’s chest. “Let me _go.”_

“Why?” A simple question, one word. Yet, so important, so confusing, hanging between them in the cold air of the room.

Fist pulling back from his sternum, only to slam back again, unforgiving, unyielding. A question in rebuttal: “Why not?”

Silence.

More questions, too quick for Geralt to process: “Why would I stay? Hmm? I’ll tell you why I want to leave.” The fist turns into an accusing finger, somehow hurting more. “Because every day, you remind me I’m not enough. When you don’t let me come along on hunts, when you tell me to fuck off or to shut up, when you-“

A sharp intake of breath, tears glazing over blue eyes, voice catching in the back of his throat, before returning, twice as soft, twice as painful. “When you look at Yennefer like she’s the only one for you, like I’m just _not there”_ his voice broke “and haven’t been for twenty bloody years, you remind me I’m not good enough.”

A single tear down a furiously red cheek. “So it’s better if I just leave, and you can go find her, or find someone that loves you better than I do.”

_Love love love love love love._

Love. Geralt wanted to say it back, wanted to get the words out of his treacherous throat, but couldn’t find the strength to do it. Just as he had never been able to.

Silence. Finally: “Jaskier…”

A hand in front of his face, pain and hurt and sadness in blue eyes. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong. Trust me, I’ve been wrong about plenty of things in my life, so I know I’m not right now. Hell, I’ve done a lot of things wrong, loving you being one, but I know moving on won’t be.”

Something snapped in Geralt. Tears in yellow eyes, confusion creasing his brow, hurt bitter at the back of his tongue. “Jaskier, please.” A growl gathering in his throat, frustration at the loss of his words, pain at Jaskier’s expression.

“What?” Silence. Then, voice frail, soft, hurt. A repeat: “If you want me to leave, then tell me to leave, and I’ll _go._ ”

Finally, the words he desperately needed returned. “I don’t want you to.” Blue eyes looking up at him, big, scared, hopeful, in pain.

“ _Don’t_.” Soft sound at the back of his throat. “Don’t do that to me.” A sigh, quiet and broken. “Don’t give me false hope, Geralt of Rivia.”

The Witcher sighed. Yellow eyes closing, searching behind eyelids for the right thing to say, to do, to show. Open again, staring at white locks in front of him as he let his head hang. Hand finally leaving the wood of the door, slowly, carefully, calculated, cradling the Bard’s cheek. Thumb rubbing over soft, warm skin, leaving trails of blazing fire in its wake.

“I’m not.” Jaskier scoffed, looked away, blue eyes glazed over, rain on a clear summer’s day. Foreheads, touching each other, slowly, softly, gently. Dizzy with proximity, intoxicated with the scent of lemongrass and the sea on Jaskier’s shallow breath, the world narrowing down to where their skin touched, to where their breaths intertwined.

“I’m not.” Repeated, couldn’t find new words, so the old ones would have to do. Eventually, finally, at last. Lips meeting. Teeth clashing. A sharp intake of breath, soft sound at the back of their throats, hesitating arms wrapping around Geralt’s neck, fingers in white hair.

Twenty years of yearning, longing, loving, hoping. Culminated into one fleeting moment and the ones yet to come after that. The contact of skin on skin, tongues meeting, hands wandering and wild and _hungry._

Twenty years of nothing for the longest time, the most torturous of _maybe_ ’s and _shouldn’t_ ’s. Suddenly, and explosion into one, big array of colours, impression, scents, sounds, touches.

Twenty years of stolen glances, aching sighs, fleeting contacts. A dance of _maybe_ and _no_ and leaving and coming back together again. Now, he got to touch, feel, experience everything the Bard had to offer, and everything Jaskier could ask and demand and give and take – _Geralt would let him take it all._

As long as Jaskier stayed.


End file.
